Vanilla - with a Twist

I don't understand why I was so hormonally super charged that evening. I mean Mondays have been a little whacked for me ever since I told my ex that I didn't dare even try to keep the boys for an entire week this summer. (I love my three boys to death. But when they get going on a combined rampage, they could kick the shit of Attila the Hun!) Last year we made it to four and a half days and then my landlady descended upon us like the crazy witch bitch she is.

So Lee and I settled upon a compromise. I'd have them from Friday until Monday, rather then the usual Sunday. At least until they went back to school. That worked out pretty well. He could work his every other three day weekend shift and his new wife didn't have to try and deal with the horde solo. And me and the boys got an extra day together.

It some what "messed" up those weekends for me and my fiancé. But he'd been going back to the house in Wisconsin he and his ex wife still owned for his weekends with his two sons anyhow. So mainly, at least in print, so to speak, it just meant he got back here some time on Monday, rather then the usual Sunday.

It was simple math and reality shit that kept his and mine apart on our custody weekends. My one bedroom apartment could barely sleep me and my three boys. There was really no way to make it work to sleep two adults and four kids. (His oldest just turned eighteen, and it's the young man's last summer vacation before either college or a full time job. Some weekends Brian doesn't even see the oldest for more then an hour or two.)

And on top of that we had vehicular issues. His small car was not made to safely transport six people around.

As I'd mentioned, he and his ex still owned the house in Wisconsin. They hadn't managed to sell it yet. Until they did, Carol lived there with their two boys and Brian basically lived here with me. He went back there on the weekends I had my boys. And quite often, on the weekends I didn't, he and I would go there so that he could mow, and water the plants and make sure the poor rabbits weren't dying of neglect.

They still shared a house together that needed to be kept in sell worthy shape.

And we had a cordial, if at times weirdly unsettling relationship with his ex and her new boyfriend.

So that extra day shouldn't have really mattered all that much in terms of the relationship. I still had my lover, my heart, with me well over twenty days out of the month.

But it did matter.

Fridays were always weird. I was already anticipating how much I would miss him. As well as thinking about how little sleep I'd be getting over the next three days. And beginning to start in on the hopes and prayers that the boys wouldn't be too loud. That the autistic one wouldn't throw a huge amount of jumping/screaming auti fits that duress forced trapped the two of us for hours on my bed.

Sometimes, with the fact that he worked nights and didn't get home until 6:30 am, we didn't always find the time to make love. And even when we did, we didn't always-finish, so to speak. We were always too aware of all the things that had to be done before he went and the boys came.

And we rarely ever made love on Mondays. Even though by that time both of us were a little crazy with unrequited lust. Either my ex didn't pick up the boys until hours after he'd said he would. (I think all my "boys" liked the time it gave us all together. I know I did.) or else Brian got to the apartment so late that he barely had time to drop his bags and make his sandwiches for the night.

So this summer I'm becoming a little used to being a crazy woman Monday nights.

When he walks in the door, I drop what ever I am doing and throw myself into his arms and we just hold each other for as long as we can. Forget about modern, independent woman for those minutes. Usually I'm literally shaking from the simple relief of having him back again safe. And I'm whispering over and over that "I missed you. God I missed you!"

If the boys have already been picked up or we can sneak into the kitchen before they realize "Brian's here" and pounce on him, we get to kiss hard and achingly hungry at least for a few minutes.

But even when they aren't there still on those summer Mondays we almost never have enough time to do more then kiss and chastely pet each other. The rare times he does get there an hour or so before work; when the boys are already picked up neither one of us ever really seems to be able to blurt "We've got time. God can we do a quick fuck, because I need it so bad!"

And this Monday was probably the worst ever. The boys were still there and we'd had a rough weekend. It had been so hot, over ninety degrees at times in the apartment that all four of us had been balancing on that thin line of lunatic rage from the moment they walked in the door. (When the "baby" of the family, my sweet and sunny seven year old is overheard muttering "I'm gonna KILL the next person who yells at me!" there's the proof that it's really, really bad.)

I got to hold my heart for maybe five minutes. Some how I managed not to start bawling out my misery all over him.

He didn't even have time to make his sandwiches. He just grabbed a frozen dinner and an orange then yelled good bye to the boys and was gone.

At that point I think we were all about to burst into hysterical sobbing but the apartment buzzer bleated and I all but threw the three boys and all their suit cases at my ex. I did at least manage not to scream at him to "get them the hell away from here!"

It wasn't a serious thing. It was just a bad weekend. We knew, even the baby, that the only reason we were all so cantankerous was because of the horrible, humid heat. And I had told them that I was getting a window A.C. unit and the next time they came, we wouldn't be sweltering in ninety plus degree hell heat.

Maybe three minutes after they'd gone I had stripped down to just my lace panties and was lying on my bed, beneath the ceiling fan and directly in front of the rotating floor fan, fingers of one hand working furiously on my clot, pushing deep into my wet pussy, thinking about my lover, desperate for an orgasm after three days of no privacy, and no getting off.

When I think about him, when I fantasize about sex with him, I barely even get to touch myself before I cum. I love how just thinking about him makes me go all instant orgasm, but that Monday I didn't so much love it.

I came in about six seconds and had to flip straight over onto my belly so I could scream into my pillows. I figured that over the last three days my neighbors had heard way more shrieking, screaming and hysterical conniption fits then they deserved to have to endure.

But fuck, coming that fast sucked!

I knew I'd be too sensitive to try again for at least an hour and I was still so horny I'd have damn near sold any or all or my little darlings to have Brian on top of me pumping away hard.

So I started up my laptop and dove into reading erotica. That got me off once more, sitting there in my wooden straight backed chair reading force fantasies, legs spread wide and one hand rubbing my clot and pumping fingers deep into my cunt while the other pinched and pulled on my nipples.

That cum took me about thirty seconds. It also came with the urge to scream and shriek and carry on like an Irish hellion.

I restrained myself, and sent Brian a text message telling him to "wake me up" when he got back home here in the morning. The added mrrrreeow, would make what I meant more then clear.

I mreeeowww at him often, when he's running around the apartment here and just turning me on. He can be asleep and he turns me on. Hell I even find the rare times he snores bloody hot!

So there I was getting no where but more and more sexually frustrated.

Now here's a brilliant idea! Let's open a Window's word pad document and write. About what? Yeah. No brainer there. I'm gonna write about kinky stuff.

But lets grease the literate gears with some Vodka. If nothing else eventually I'll get hammered enough that I can stagger off to my bed and pass out in sleep.

And why does NOTHING ever work out as I plan it to? What the hell did I ever "do" to whomever the hell that most every thing I attempt ends up with me shooting myself? Even I haven't managed to be bad enough to deserve the karma/repercussions I get!

Half an hour later, my entire body sweat slick...it was over ninety degrees in the living room...I was once again flat on my back working nips and clit in a sexual frenzy for that third cum!

Took me almost three minutes this time. Drinking slows down my ability to get myself off. Loved the extra time it allowed me to pinch and twist my nipples, but the orgasm I finally got was so pathetic it almost started me screeching again.

At that point I kinda just said fuck it. Brian will be back in about 6 hours. I'll get my good sex then.

So I offed the stupid little stroke porn I was writing.

Then I stared at the laptop's empty screen and wondered, so what do I want to do now?

I didn't really want to talk to anyone, casual or long time friends. All I wanted was my baby back home with me.

I wanted to have awesome, amazing, make me cum two of three times love fucking. And then I wanted that deliciously peaceful sleep that follows, where he turns on his side and I curl up behind and wrap myself around him and feel his heat and heart beat.

I just miss him so bad on the weekends we're not together. I want him back in my bed. I want to hear him murmur, already half asleep after delicious loving, when I wrap myself around him, "this is heaven."

So I started up a Windows word pad document and started to just basically babble.

I love to write things about him. I like to write about him. Most of my recent poems were written to or for or about him.

An English teacher I really respected, told me something that I could probably read in every book directed towards any kind of writer, novice or Nobel prize note worthy.

Write about what you KNOW.

He slip slides into all the fiction stories I write lately. Usually as the main character but sometimes just little bits and pieces of what I love about him, that I add to some secondary character.

The Windows word pad thing was yet another bad idea of the day.

I think mostly it was that bloody humid, heavy heat.

I didn't want to take the floor fan out of the bedroom. Between the ceiling fan and the small space and the rotating floor fan-not to mention the double fan in the window the bed was placed against-the bedroom was always at least five degrees cooler then the rest of the apartment. It had cooled down at least by ten degrees outside. Tonight I would maybe actually be able to sleep!

So I was writing in front of the open window in the living room, and the wet heat was slapping me, barely touched by the ceiling fan.

Yet somehow I wrote on that Window's word pad for hours.

But then the heat, and my rising sexual arousal about what I was writing got to me. I decided to take a quick, cold bath to cool myself for a few minutes.

I thought I'll cool down and I'll get one more orgasm using real toys. Maybe a thick latex cock in my throbbing hungry pussy will be enough to get me off this got to cum again and again treadmill?

And then I'll dash in and save this document and hide it away before I go to bed.

Except it didn't work that way.

The best laid plots of men and apparently women as well, tend NOT to work.

I fell asleep in the tub. (It was the first time I'd been even vaguely cool in weeks.) And Brian came home two hours early and saw that the laptop was open.

He is amazing. But he's not a Saint.

He nudged it out of sleeper mode to see if he could just shut it down or if he needed to wake me up so that I could save writings. He didn't know if I was just reading erotica or doing something I wouldn't want to lose.

And what I was writing about on word pad popped up.

It was just one sentence his eyes read just because they caught that eye. And once he'd read that one sentence, he kept reading.

And things would never be the same again.